


when i imagine myself / i am always leaving

by toodleoodle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, No beta we die like archival assistants, i intended to write a soft little scene and it turned into a ! sweet little fic, these scenes are mostly meant to make u feel... warm and good inside..., what are canon timelines? idk her, you can read this as shippy if you'd like! i left it open for interpretation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toodleoodle/pseuds/toodleoodle
Summary: "Whenever I tried to run away the ‘real’ world seemed so… ignorant I could never be a part of it." ( MAG111 )a series of excerpts of a second shot at life for gerard keay.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i did not think much about how this fits into the canon story line. it is set somewhere after MAG111, but i don't know how or why gerry is alive, or /if/ he is alive at all. i just wanted to write a very self-indulgent, soft little scene, and that turned into a small little fic i will update whenever inspiration strikes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the soft realization of a house turned into a home.

It were the bleak days that Gerry found himself enjoying most. Grey clouds indiscernible from concrete and brick, weeping down heavy drops of rain until everything shone. Reflections of streetlights upon asphalt, tops of buildings disappearing in a foggy, low-hanging cloud… Perhaps he liked it so much because it often reflected his own mood, colorless and tiresome. He wonders when the last time is he felt happy, or _laughed_ … All he could recall were dry chuckles, laughing at a joke that was too personal or a comment that cut too deep. A reflex, a way to deflect whatever harmful something lay beneath.

Well, whatever. It didn’t matter much.

All he wanted to do right now was sit here and look outside, for the grim shape of the world could not reach him here. Gerry was warm, _comfortable_ , at ease in a house that did not belong to him, yet felt more like a home than any other place ever had.

He is tucked in nicely, legs pulled up to his chest so that the blanket cast around his shoulders may cover them. His feet still stick out, of course, but it was nice nonetheless. The weight of the blanket almost feels alien, its warm fuzzy texture foreign to rough fingers. When was the last time Gerry had even used a blanket? All that comes to mind is the wrinkle and shine of a trauma blanket, wrapped around him tightly as he sat on the back of an ambulance, sirens blaring so loudly and for so long his ears stopped hearing.

He wonders how long ago that was.

He wonders many things. He wonders _why_ he wonders so much. Why is his mind such a deep, dark pit? Or would a river describe it better, pulling him in further and further, head barely held above water as the current thrashes past him…

  
“Gerry?”

The sound of his own name cuts through it all. Tosses a lifeline that wraps itself around Gerry’s tired, scrawny frame and pulls him out as if he’s only knee-deep in a gentle stream.

He looks up, blinking against the cozy light. Jon stands at the other end of the room, having entered from the kitchen.

“Hm?”

  
“Are… you okay?” There is a hint of concern in Jon’s voice, his bushy brows knitting together ever so slightly as he looks Gerry over.

“Oh, sure. Just lost in thought, you know?” Gerry replies with a gentle sigh, stretching his weary legs from underneath him. The muscles protest as they’re bent again, but it is a good ache. It makes him feel safe…

“Right… Well, um, dinner is almost ready. It just needs to cook for a little while longer,” Jon says, voice returned to its awkward, curt self.

Ah, had Gerry been absent for that long? He hums again, considering Jon’s words as he pushes himself to his feet and wanders past him into the kitchen. The smell hits him first, rich and sweet. Had Jon used wine for their meal?

“Smells good,” Gerry remarks as he peers through the see-through lid of the cooking pot. Most of the glass was obscured by steam, but here and there, Gerry got a peak of the meal. His lips tug up ever so slightly, and he is _excited_.

Gerry steps away from the pan again, not wanting to disturb its hard work, and looks around the kitchen. It is a little bare, not quite _lived in_ , but it still beats all the places Gerry had resided in his life. As his eyes glance through the room, he notices perhaps the only brightly-colored thing in here— aside from the deep orange blanket draped around Gerry’s shoulders still. He wonders where Jon got it. It didn’t seem like a color he’d enjoy at all…

Laid in a fruit bowl was a game of _Uno_. It seemed brand new, though the outer wrapping had been removed. It had probably never been opened…

“Uno?” Gerry remarks, voice quiet. Jon hears him anyway, having trailed after him into the small kitchen, and follows Gerry’s gaze. “Didn’t take you for the type to play games.”

“Oh, I’m… not. It was a gift,” Jon admits, and then, after a moment of hesitation, he asks: “Do you… want to play?”

Gerry hums in thought at the question. _Does he_? “I’m afraid I forgot the rules.”

“It’s not too hard,” Jon replies, crossing the space to retrieve the game. He takes it back with him into the living room, expecting Gerry to follow. He does so, smiling to himself about the image of the great Archivist playing a game meant for six-year-olds.

Jon is already seated at the small dinner table, taking out the cards— they are still wrapped in plastic, like Gerry had suspected. He takes place opposite of Jon and reached for half of the deck, nimble fingers shuffling the cards with purposeful technique.

When Jon sees, he raises a brow.

“Everyone has their party trick, ey?” Gerry merely shares, lips tugging up once more into the ghost of a smile.

Once the deck is shuffled, Gerry looks up at Jon expectantly. The latter begins handing them out, but as he gets to the count of four, he furrows his brow and stops. “Now, I believe it was… five cards— or seven…”

  
“You don’t know how to play either, do you?” Gerry asks, leaning forward ever so slightly in amusement.

“Oh, shut up.”

Jon reaches for the manual, muttering something to himself as he scans the tiny print. Once he’s done, Gerry reaches for it, reading through the rules as Jon finishes dividing up the cards. It really _wasn’t_ a very difficult game…

The first few turns are awkward and clumsy, both men still figuring out the game, but as the draw pile shrinks, their actions become more relaxed. For a childish game, it truly was good entertainment, at least to Gerry. Jon scoffed and sighed whenever he was forced to take a card, as if he was the unluckiest man in the world. The game did not favor him either, instead blessing Gerry with all the _+4s_ and _Skip Turns_ and _Pick a new colors_ and whatnot.

Still, the game went on for nearly half an hour, and when Gerry finally rid himself of his last card, Jon still had a handful. One sat with fists raised in the air triumphantly, the other cast his cards down with a dissatisfied grunt. It only made Gerry’s victory all the more savory.

Jon casts another sigh, and pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll go check on dinner,” he declared, still miffed ever so slightly about his poor performance, and turns to head towards the kitchen.

Gerry makes himself useful by gathering the cards, intending to put them back into the box, but then he has a thought. A simple crinkle of the brain, shattering his mind.

“Jon?” He calls out.

  
“Yes?” Jon replies, turning away from the meal to look at Gerry.

He finds the gentle giant looking up at him with an odd look in his eyes, cards forgotten in thin fingers. Was it… recognition, the look on Gerry’s face? Confusion? Both…?

“Is this what normal is like?”

The question is asked with such genuine hope, such soft realization, Jon feels compelled to abandon the task at hand and make his way over to the other. He kneels down by Gerry’s chair and takes his face into his own worn hands, forcing him to look up at Jon. Gerry looks so much smaller than he is, seated there hunched forwards, limbs lost within the comfortable stretches of fleece and fuzz. Even his aura, usually large and imposing (though never intimidating… Not to Jon…), seems to have dwindled, turned into the smallest flicker of a candle.

“…As normal as it gets with me,” Jon replies softly, and for the first time since he’s known Gerry, the man _smiles._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> adjusting to a life without monsters is not a gentle process.

It feels odd to be here, somehow. It is not like Gerry has never visited a place like this before. Of course he has, but… He never spent time browsing, leisurely pushing his noisy shopping card through narrow isles while slowly being cooked alive by the sun magnified through glass overhead. It was always a quick visit, in and out, to get bleach, or rat poison, or a trowel— maybe some candy if it was near the registers and it could fit in his pocket. Home deco was never much on his mind, not when he knew they’d move away again in a month or so.

Yet here Gerry was, strolling past the greenery of some local garden center. Jon had been adamant about going: _It would be fun_ , he had said, in that joyless tone of his, the one he only ever used to describe a hassle. Jon did not want to be here any more than Gerry, but something motivated him to go anyway, and Gerry doubted it was more fuzzy blankets or flashy pillow cases.

Either way, once there, Jon had instructed Gerry to pick out a plant or two while Jon himself ran some more practical errands elsewhere in the store, leaving Gerry to fend for himself amidst monstera plants and orchids and palm trees of all sizes.

It would be a lie to say Gerry wasn’t at least a little overwhelmed by the massive selection of plants the store offered. He had ventured into the inside plants section, guessing that since Jon's apartment was on the second floor, there was little use for any outside plants. Not that Gerry knew the difference— he had passed by the outside plants on his way here, and found many plants looked the exact same as the ones he was looking at right now.

He picks the first of two plants without much care, grabbing the first thing he sees that is reasonably sized. All plants are the same in the end, right? Or at least pretty much, he figures. But as Gerry peruses past the assortment, he finds his assessment strongly challenged. A closer look reveals to him the instructions many plants carry: Some require a lot of sunlight, some less, some need to be watered frequently, while others only require the tiniest bit to thrive. With furrowed brows, Gerry reaches for the plant already bumping along in his cart. Half sun half shadow, water weekly.

… What did that even mean?

What was _a lot of water_? How much sunlight was a lot?

Why had no one told Gerry that there was so much _inside architectural planning_ involved in buying a bloody plant?

He puts the plant down with a sigh. It would just have to do— Jon could figure out where to put it when they were back at the apartment. Now, _get it together, Gerry_. He was not about to have a mental breakdown over a plant. All he needed was one more, and then he could get the hell out of here.

With renewed dread, Gerry continues his search. He decides to pick up something that is easy to take care of— A cactus, or a… What were they called again? A succulent. 

But of course, once reaching that collection, there are a handful to pick from again, and Gerry could not tell the difference between them all even if he tried.

He picks up a spiky plant, then reaches over for a small fat one, holding both in his hands as he tries to figure out which one to pick, frustration gnawing at the edges of his composure.

_Just pick one. It’s not that hard._ Truthfully, he feels paralyzed— Gerry is so out of his depth, even the simplest choice feels like a mountain to be climbed. How come he struggles with this so much, when he hunted cursed books and fought monsters for nearly 30 years? _Come on_.

To grant himself a break from the impossible choice, Gerry casts a look around instead, observing the people passing him by. That only triggers another unfortunate realization: Gerry stood out— Physically, of course, thin body towering over most others by at least half a foot, but in _every_ _other_ _sense_ as well. His body is a mess, and no matter how much he tries to cover it with long sleeves and high turtlenecks, the scars and ink still peek out from where fabric ended. His hair is still long and dark and greasy, his clothes still black and angry, the bags under his eyes still sad and worrisome. He does not _fit in_ , and he never would, would he?

Gerry looks down at the two plants in his hands, and all he can think is, _God, who the hell cares about plants?_

All these people here, none of them _knew_ — They were all concerned with such superficial matters, all here for their own selfish, silly purposes. _What type of soil should they get? What brand of cat food does the cat like best? What bloody color pillow case would go best on the couch?_ None of them knew of the eldritch horrors sapping their fears, lurking in the shadows, altering the world little by little by their twisted designs.

No one but Gerry.

He had destroyed his own body, his entire life, and for what? To be resurrected from the dead and struggle with picking a bloody plant?

Gerry scoffs, and drops the plants. They fall over as they land in his cart, spilling earth as they shift from their plastic pots, but Gerry is already gone, leaving the cart behind. He crosses the store with large strides, hands balled to fists by his side, and passes Jon on his way out. He looks surprised to see Gerry.

  
“Gerry? Gerry!” Jon calls out, abandoning his own cart to reach Gerry. The latter moves away when Jon tries to grab his arm, his own pace hardly faltering as the Archivist tries to catch up.

“I’m going for a smoke. Pick me up when you’re done,” Gerry announces curtly, leaving Jon behind in concerned puzzlement.

Outside, Gerry moves across the entire parking lot before finally coming to a standstill. Turning his back towards the building, he reaches inside his coat pocket, hands trembling ever so slightly as he retrieves a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He clicks his tongue in annoyance when the lighter doesn’t ignite first try, forcing him to try at least five times before it finally produces a steady flame.

Once the cigarette is lit, he takes a deep drag— and then another, and another, finally able to relax when he feels the tabac burn in his lungs.

Back inside, Jon foregoes the last few items on the shopping list, face contorted in a worried frown. He finds Gerry’s cart in the middle of the inside plants section, holding three perfectly fine plants, though two of them are knocked over. For a moment, Jon considers buying them— Gerry must have picked these, after all, per Jon’s request, but… Something doesn’t feel quite right. Gerry would not have abandoned the task if there wasn’t something _wrong_ …

He puts the plants back, and takes the empty cart with him to the register.

About fifteen minutes must have passed, at most, when Jon emerges from the garden center, carrying two small plastic bags holding his items. One look around reveals Gerry at the other end of the parking lot, looking out over the highway next to the store, smoking what has to be his second or third cigarette. He’s easy to spot, tall and lanky and dark and brooding as he is, and with careful uncertainty, Jon makes his way across the lot towards him.

“… Gerry?” He tries gently, coming to a stand still a few feet away from him.

Gerry seems to have returned to his relaxed self when he looks up. “Oh, hey,” he greets, dropping the bud of his cigarette and crushing it beneath his heavy sole. “You done?”

  
“Yes, well…” Jon starts, but then changes his mind. Gerry does not need to know their visit was hardly successful, he thinks. “Yes. Are you… alright?”

Gerry sighs, hands disappearing into his coat pockets. “Oh, you know,” he replies, “just overwhelmed by existential dread and utter, unsolvable alienation from human kind.”

He chuckles, dry and ghostly, but neither men really feel like laughing.

“What…?” Jon asks after a short moment. He doesn’t understand, not _quite_ …

  
“Give me a Leitner to find, and I know exactly what to do and where to go, but anything that involves _home deco_? I’m no use. Plants aren’t exactly my forte, not when they’re not trying to actively kill me.”

It finally clicks, and Jon feels like smacking his head into a wall. He could’ve known…

  
“Gerry, I…” he starts, but Gerry cuts him off.

  
“Tell me, Jon, and be honest. Did you actually have fun in there?” He asks. There is no malice in his tone, no spite or dislike towards Jon at all. Merely sad acceptance towards a situation Gerry must have faced time and time and time again in his past.

“…No, not really,” Jon replies truthfully, glancing away as he does. Gerry doesn’t look surprised— he probably already guessed.

“So why did we come? Why did you insist?” He asks, this time genuinely looking for an answer he does not know yet.

“I… I wanted you to… feel more _at_ _home_. I thought bringing you here and letting you pick out some things would help… To make the place a bit more _your own_. But… ” Jon cuts off with a sighs, looking away again, “I was wrong.” And he feels like an idiot for for putting Gerry though this…

“Well… At least you tried. That’s more than Gertrude ever did for me. Or, god forbid, my mum.”

Jon looks up— Gerry still looks sad and tired, but… His dark eyes spark with appreciation nonetheless. Apparently, the attempt meant more than its outcome.

“Let’s just get out of here, yea?” He adds, managing a weak smile for Jon’s sake. He walks over to Jon and takes one of the bags from him. “I’ve had about enough of this place.”

Jon sighs in agreement, and without knowing it, his lips tilt upwards into a smile.

“Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got another chapter written up, all i need to do is go through one last time. it will be up tomorrow! stay tuned (:
> 
> edit: apologies ! it will take a little longer. i do have a scene written up, but i want to post something sweet before uploading that one. except the new chapters this weekend !


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the comfort of each other.

Gerard was a night-owl. Jon would hear him shuffle about the living room downstairs every night, quiet and muted but present nevertheless, as he himself tossed and turned in an attempt to fall asleep.

As much as Jon would like to argue it, he was up just as late as Gerry tended to be. He would seek out the shallow comfort of his sheets and pillows every night at 11pm sharp, and if he was lucky, he’d be out within half an hour. It was staying asleep, however, that was the issue: Jon does not recall the last time he slept for more than two hours without waking up somewhere in between.

Sleep did not come easy to Jon anymore, not after all he had been through.

Surely, Gerry knew the feeling.

Sometimes, when Jon wakes up particularly rattled, he would go downstairs, to tire out old bones and distract his rattled mind before trying again to succumb to slumber. He had never encountered Gerry on such nights— it seemed that once Gerard confined himself to his room, he stayed there until the final stretches of morning.

Jon had slipped into this rhythm quite comfortably. He would stay in his own room until Gerard had left for bed, and then the small apartment was his to roam. It was for the best, probably. Jon wasn’t sure what he would say or do to Gerry at night, when all the pretense of the day was gone. When seeing each other was a sign of a failed attempt, a startling interruption, a poor habit.

Tonight, though, it seems their unspoken harmony finally falls short. The first sign Jon hears is a soft _thunk_ from Gerard’s room up ahead, while he himself is nursing a glass of warm milk seated on the couch looking out the window. The sound of something falling… Had Gerry knocked something over?

It is followed by the slam of Gerry’s door, a little louder than Jon is used of him. He has little time to ponder over Gerry’s door handling habits, however, as a more urgent thought arises… Was Gerry coming downstairs?

The sound of feet descending the staircase answers that question. Jon’s head snaps up at the door connecting the downstairs hallway and the living room, and he feels as if he is paralyzed, unable to do anything but wait until Gerry shows himself, while his brain is racking up ways to _avoid_ such a confrontation.

For a fraction of a second, as Gerry enters into the living room quietly, Jon catches his unfiltered expression— Tired. Sad. Shaken. Then, Gerry’s dark eyes find Jon, and the soft frown is replaced by surprise. His eyes widen ever so slightly and he comes to a halt, still only halfway through the doorframe with a hand frozen on the door handle.

“Oh…” he starts, the noise hardly more than a puff of air released between slightly parted lips. “…I didn't know you were… here.”

“Well… I am…” Jon replies stiffly, atmosphere shifting awkwardly.

“…Right. I uh… I just want to grab a cracker, okay? Then I’ll be out of your hair,” Gerry murmurs, finally letting go of the doorhandel.

Jon nods, and part of him wishes they could leave it at that. He does not want to talk to Gerry, not right now, when he had no energy to keep his walls up, but…

Jon cares too much.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

Gerry stops walking, back turned towards Jon. He had almost made it into the kitchen— _Why did you have to ask, Jon?_

“Mh,” he hums softly, in that thoughtful manner of his, “…had a nightmare. The first once since, well, you know. Since being _back_ …”

“Oh…” A pause. “Did… Did you have many _before_?”

  
“Plenty. I’m… It’s fine, usually. I know how to handle them. It’s just… been a while, is all. I’m sorry— I usually don’t come out of my room, I know you like to roam around at night, I just… I just want to grab a bite, that’s all.”

Jon’s mouth falls open in surprise. He had always thought Gerry slept through the night… Had he been staying holed up in his room _for Jon’s sake_?

  
“No, it’s— It’s quite alright. I don’t mind,” he replies, though he is not sure if the words hold truth. He wants to be alone, but at the same time…

Gerry’s presence is oddly comforting.

“Do you... want to talk about it?” Jon asks. He means well, but he cannot help the awkward hint in his voice.

“Oh? Are you asking me for a _Statement_?” Gerry replies, lips curling up ever so slightly.

Jon's brow twitches.

“No, I— I’m offering a listening ear, is all.”

“Mhh,” Gerry hums again. He takes a step towards the dining table, leaning back against its edge as he crosses his arms, “Just same old, same old. Fire, hospital rooms, my mother's dead, skinned body. Nothing I haven't seen before.”

He means for it to be funny, albeit morbidly so, but Jon does not feel like laughing.

“I’m… sorry…”

“Oh, don’t be. I told you, I’m used to it. They don’t faze me much anymore, the nightmares. It’s just hard to fall back asleep after.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been one with words, and matters like _this_ … He is way out of his league here…

“But… eating helps, yes?” He asks after a brief silence, awkwardly trying to shift the conversation to a more positive note.

Gerry shrugs, pushing himself up from the table to move towards the couch instead. Jon scoots aside ever so slightly to make room.

“I suppose. The distraction is nice. It gives me something to do,” he replies, sinking down into soft, worn cushions. He crosses his arms again, almost protectively, brows knit together ever so slightly as he teeters on the edge of his thoughts.

It’s odd… When he is with Jon, Gerry always feels like sharing. Not because Jon _forces_ the words out of him, but rather because… Well, his words feel safe with Jon.

Perhaps that’s why Gerry continues talking, tilting his head ever so slightly as he does. “Before, you know, _way back_ … Mh, it’s odd. My mum and I would often sleep in the same bed— it was just easier than getting two beds every time we moved, and as a kid, I could fit in her’s fine. As often as my mum was in my nightmares, it… helped, to have her by my side. Well, probably not _her_ specifically, but… _Someone_. Made me feel… safe. It surprised me how hard it was to adjust to sleeping alone after she, well, you know…”

He sighs, letting his head fall back onto the backrest of the sofa and closing his eyes.

Another silence falls between them, heavy and awkward (at least for Jon), but not painful.

Gerry spends it reminiscing, while Jon racks his brain for something to say or do, anything that could _help_ …

“Would you…” he starts as the thought forms into his head, words escaping his lips before he has even properly considered it, “… like to sleep together?”

Gerard’s head snaps back up, eyes locking onto Jon in surprise.

“… Are you asking me to have sex with you?” He asks, lips splitting into that devious grin he wears when he teases Jon.

Jon immediately begins to sputter.

“My my, Archivist, how forthcoming of you,” Gerry continues, smirk now threatening to cut his face in half as he crosses his legs and rests his chin into his palm, “Hadn’t _pegged_ you for the type.”

Jon isn’t sure whether he wants to hit himself or Gerard more.

“Forget I ever said anything,” he manages, painfully aware of the heat burning in his cheeks as he turns his head away.

Gerry chuckles, composes himself for Jon’s sake.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he concedes, expression turning serious once more as he looks Jon in the eye, “Are you serious? About the offer. What you _meant_ to say. Would you really do it?”

Would Jon?

Hardly more than 20 minutes ago, he had despised the idea of spending any time with Gerry, but now…

“Yes.”

“Alright, then.”

—

Some tossing and turning is expected, Gerry supposes, staring at the ceiling of Jon’s bedroom— both are unfamiliar with the situation, with _each other,_ but…

Dear god.

Jon’s awkwardness is almost _infectious_. He is a whirlwind besides Gerry, stiffly reorganizing his limbs over and over beneath the sheets, trying to accommodate to the foreignness of another body next to him, trying to avoid touching Gerry, trying to refrain from losing his cool, trying, trying, trying.

Initially, Gerry lays on his back, hands folded over his midrif, waiting for the storm next to him to settle, but a sense of discomfort creeps over him.

He had lain like this in his dream too, back pressed onto the cold metal of a morgue, a figure looming over him digging into his flesh—

He rolls onto his side with a sigh, but his movements only reawaken Jon’s frantic twists. By the sound of the soft huffs coming from the mess beneath pillows and blankets, Gerry can tell Jon’s patience was starting to run thin, and with another sigh, Gerry pushes himself up on one elbow.

“Maybe I should go,” he suggest softly. Jon turns back to him, brow twitching with annoyance.

“No, I— I’m sorry, I just—“ Jon begins, and his tone reveals all Gerry needs to know.

“Okay. _Okay_ ,” Gerry mumbles. _Let me help you_. “Come on, lift your pillow.”

  
“What? Why?”

“I’m going to stretch my arm, it’ll be more comfortable for the both of us.”

“Oh…” Jon huffs, then does as he is told. Scooting a little closer, Gerry extends his arm, palm turned upwards sticking out from the other end of the pillow as Jon puts it back down hesitantly. He lies his head back down, and feels Gerry shift ever so slightly beneath him, fitting his arm into the hollow of Jon’s neck as if it was meant to go there.

Jon goes still, finally, back facing Gerry. Laying like this, it all suddenly makes sense. Calm returns. Jon sighs, and Gerry softly mirrors the sound. They are content.

Somewhere during the night, Gerry reaches over and brushes Jon’s hair down, nose teased by salt and pepper strands tracing his skin. Jon’s lips twitch upwards into a sleepy smile.

Somewhere during the night, Jon wakes up again, tucked against Gerry comfortably. His eyes fall onto the curled up hand right next to his face, dry damaged skin decorated with morbid ink.

The Watcher could see through all eyes, even depictions, Jon remembers. Even these…

Jon closes his eyes, and smiles.

Let them see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is beauty in a flawed design.

Jon can’t help it.

When he sees Gerard tie up his hair, granting him a proper look at the mess that was at its base, Jon gasps.

“My god…”

Gerry’s head turns around, clearly not realizing what Jon was responding to. His hands stopped their gentle work, keeping his hair bundled together at the crown of his head as he looks at Jon questioningly.

“Your… Your hair, it um. It’s certainly…” Jon begins, and Gerry smiles, shaking his head ever so slightly as he lets go of his hair. It cascades down his shoulders, hiding the worst of the mess.

Of course, Gerry’s… _unfortunate hair situation_ was apparent from any angle. The grease was not even the problem, rather it was the _poor dye job_ that truly caught the eye. His roots were hardly kept up with, showing a pale dirty blond —or was it strawberry?— beneath, and here and there, depending on how Gerard’s hair would fall, bright streaks that the dye had not touched peeked through the dark mess.

“Mh, yeah, I know right? You’d think after years of dyeing it, I’d have gotten the hang of it,” Gerry hums. He doesn’t take any offense to Jon’s surprise— Jon isn’t wrong, after all. “I’d say I usually just don’t have the time to dye it thoroughly, but… I think I was just lazy, for the most part.”

He brushes a hand through the locks, taking one strand between his middle and index finger to study it. Amusedly, he flicks it back and forth, then lets go all together in favor of getting up.

Moving towards the window, he turns his head to view his reflection, pressing a finger to his roots.

Jon watches him quietly, following the gentle movements of long limbs gingerly.

“Suppose it’s about time for a touch-up, hm?” Gerry continues, clearly considering it as he keeps sifting his fingers through his hair, sectioning it into parts to check the status of his roots from all angles.

“What? Here?” Jon asks. Clearly, he was not very familiar with the process of dyeing one’s hair.

“Yeah. Unless you prefer I didn’t?” Gerry turns to face Jon, waiting for permission.

Jon doesn’t have it in him to refuse.

“Go ahead.”

And just like that, Gerry returns home a few hours later with two boxes of store brand hair dye.

“You know, they had wonderful anti-graying dyes too, if you want,” he shares with a smile as he takes his boxes from the plastic bag. Jon huffs.

Gerard moves into the bathroom soon after, and before long, curiosity draws Jon in as well.

He finds Gerry in front of the mirror in nothing but a t-shirt and sweats, his hair sectioned in a messy part. His tongue sticks past his lips as he massages black goo onto his roots, holding a lock of hair and a bottle of hair dye in the same gloved hand above his head.

For a moment, Jon is content watching the intricate process, shaking his head ever so slightly as he steps in and reaches for one of the untouched hair dye manuals.

“My, is it _that_ difficult?” Jon scoffs in disbelief as he unfolds the endless sheet, squinting at the tiny print.

“Mh, not really. Tedious, if anything. Do you want to try?” Gerry replies, looking at Jon through the mirror.

Jon purses his lips as he considers, but nods, putting the instructions down.

“Alright. Here you go,” Gerry hums, letting go of his own hair and handing Jon the bottle of dye and a new pair of gloves.

“Do I need these?” Jon asks, raising a brow at the clumsy gloves.

Gerry shrugs.

“Only if you want to keep your hands from staining. It’s pretty vicious stuff. Should wash out within a week or so, though,” he replies.

Jon frowns and puts the gloves on.

“Sit down,” he orders Gerry next, gesturing at the edge of the bathtub. Gerry hesitates, glancing at the mirror, but gives up sight of himself in favor of accommodating to Jon.

“Right, so…” Jon continues when Gerry has gotten comfortable, looking at the bottle and the majority of hair yet to be touched by any kind of dye.

“Just put it in. You’ll get the feel of it soon enough,” Gerry encourages him. He in no way expects Jon to excel at the task, but he supposes it beats the sore arms he’d have gotten had he dyed his hair himself.

Besides, it was already looking pretty horrible— nothing much Jon could mess up even more.

Jon discovers pretty quickly that dyeing hair is a lot more challenging than he thought. It was hard to reach lower sections, even harder to estimate the right amount of dye needed, but hardest of all was _not touching his own face_. More than once, he scratched his own nose or cheek without thinking, only to frown unhappily at the cold touch of wet dye. Trying to wipe it off only made matters worse, and more than once, Jon had to abandon Gerry’s hair to properly clean his own face.

Gerry seemed to have a much better time, teasing Jon whenever he slipped up or sighed in frustration, swaying back and forth ever so slightly as Jon ran his fingers through Gerry’s hair.

“Why do you torment me so?” Jon asks exasperatedly, trying to squeeze out the last splotches of dye from the first bottle.

“You make it too easy,” Gerry replies calmly, shaking the new bottle of dye in his lap, “Do you want me to take over again?”

“No,” Jon retorts stubbornly, setting the empty bottle aside and reaching for the new one. He couldn’t admit defeat, not like that. Gerard would never let him live it down.

Filled with determination, Jon labors away, and though he acts huffy and puffy, he actually quite enjoys Gerry’s company.

It’s not often they do things together— they share the same space often enough, but it is rare they actively engage in an activity together.

Perhaps that ought to change…

At last, the task seems done, and with brows furrowed in concentration, Jon brushes his hands through Gerry’s hair one last time. “I think that’s it, then,” he announces.

Gerry opens his eyes, turning his head towards Jon ever so slightly.

“Are you sure? You didn’t miss any spots?”

“No, Gerard, I didn’t.”

“Okay, boss, if you say so.”

Jon doesn’t quite like the smile twisting Gerry’s mouth upwards as he gets up and walks towards the mirror, but Gerry doesn’t say anything else. He inspects Jon’s work from several angles, even lifting a strand or two, before deeming it acceptable and twisting his hair into a wet, goopy knot.

They spend the next half an hour trying to clean the darkened patches on Jon’s face— despite Jon’s best attempts to clean his face as he worked, some of the dye had managed to stain his dark skin anyway, much to Jon’s disgruntlement. Gerry seemed to have a delightful time scrubbing at Jon’s cheeks with all sorts of sponges and soaps, but they quickly ran out of possible products to use. Jon had never been one to invest in skin care, after all.

Nothing much to do than wait for the skin to take care of it on its own…

All in all, by the time Gerry is ready to wash the dye from his hair, Jon is tired and testy, but he sticks around nonetheless to see the fruits of his hard labor.

The water is jet black when Gerry directs the shower head towards his hair, long strands stroking the bottom of the bathtub as he leans over its edge. Jon is fascinated, watching the dye spill from Gerry’s hair towards the drain, coloring the entire bathtub inky black without ever damaging the white porcelain. Gerry begins brushing his free hand through the hair, and it flows through as if he’s leafing through silk. Jon feels envious, almost, wishing _he_ could trace his fingers across Gerard’s scalp instead.

He opts for holding the shower head instead, bottling the desire away to ponder over some other time.

He can’t help but be surprised at how long it takes for the dye to wash out— every time he thinks Gerry is done, he moves his head one way or another, and it seems a whole new flood of ink spills from his hair.

At long last, though, Gerard seems satisfied, twisting his hair into an old t-shirt. Something about not wanting to stain Jon’s towels, he had said, and Jon was too intrigued to insist on using a towel anyway.

“And now we wait,” Gerry sighs contently, once he’s made his way into the living room after changing out of his messy wet shirt into a comfortable black hoodie.

“And now we wait,” Jon repeats, and so they do.

They watch a documentary about underwater flora— Jon’s eyes glued to the screen, Gerry, well… Jon is pretty sure he dozed off about halfway into the documentary.

  
“Is this not entertaining to you?” Jon asks him in disbelief, to which Gerry shrugs and waves a lazy, dismissive hand.

“Oh, no, sure. Plankton is great.”

The sun is already sinking below the skyline when at last, Gerry unwraps the t-shirt. He shakes the nearly dry strands loose, letting them cascade down his shoulders, and runs a hand through them, and Jon is impressed.

At his own work, of course.

Whatever blaring streaks of blond had contrasted the black before were gone, replaced by a cool, blueish obsidian. Freshly dyed, Gerry’s hair looks even sleeker, shiny and thick beneath the harsh bathroom light.

Gerry seems impressed too, as he looks in the mirror, shaking his head so his hair sways across his shoulders.

“My, Jon, you really outdid yourself,” he admits, running another hand through his hair.

“Why, thank you,” Jon replies, mood restored as he watches Gerry inspect the new color.

“I think I ought to let you do this more often— Wait—“

Oh no. _Wait what?_

Jon stares in horror as Gerry lifts up his hair near the bottom left of his head— clear as day, one single lock of strawberry escaped Jon’s thorough fingers. Somehow, it must have escaped Gerry’s countless dye jobs as well, falling nearly unblemished down to his midback.

The two men stare in silence, until Gerry breaks out in laughter.

“Almost had it, ey?” He chokes through delightful howls, tying his hair up so that the streak is presented proudly at the side of his head. Jon is fuming.

In the days to come, whenever Gerry catches sight of the blond hairs, hidden beneath a heavy layer of steely black, he can’t help but smile— they are a reminder of Jon’s unfaltering devotion, his hard work and genuine care, presenting itself just as clumsily as he was used to of Jon.

Yeah, Gerry did not mind that blond streak at all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i might be writing a slow-burn fic after all...

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr url is @amorates (:


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